


Private Enemy No. 1, or Spy vs Spy

by clockworkouroboros



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Mentions of Invasion of Time, One Shot, Only shippy if you want to read it like that, mentions of neverland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 05:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21405082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkouroboros/pseuds/clockworkouroboros
Summary: Before joining the CIA, Narvin was involved in a failed weapons research team called Project Alpha. He doesn’t want anything to get out about his involvement in it. It could ruin his career.Before getting involved in politics, Irving Braxiatel was involved in a failed weapons research team called Project Alpha. He doesn’t want anything to get out about his involvement in it. It could ruin his career.
Relationships: Irving Braxiatel & Narvin, Irving Braxiatel/Narvin
Comments: 18
Kudos: 31





	Private Enemy No. 1, or Spy vs Spy

Narvin’s first several assignments as a junior CIA agent are all related to paperwork. This suits him perfectly well; in fact, he rather likes paperwork. It’s straightforward, easy to get done, and it’s mundane. Since the other Time Lords hate doing it so much, he offers to do their paperwork for them. It keeps him out of the field, away from alien worlds and their germs and plants and potentially dangerous aliens. If he could stay the rest of his lives in a job like this, doing paperwork and staying out of danger, he’d be quite happy. He likes everything about his job: there’s no danger in paperwork, he rather likes the black-and-white CIA robes (much better than the Patrexes robes; he doesn’t look good in any shade of purple), and he knows he’s still contributing to the safety of his planet. Why, imagine the danger Gallifrey could be in if the paperwork wasn’t filed correctly! The mess, the general disarray! Nothing could ever be done without the proper paperwork—Gallifreyan bureaucracy has seen to that.

And with the ability to stay on Gallifrey, Narvin can keep an eye on events unfolding in the citadel with ease. He gets done with his paperwork quickly, and it’s always impeccable (Narvin shudders at the mere thought of poorly-finished paperwork), which gives him more than enough time to focus on his other activities. His hobbies, if you will.

Before Narvin joined the CIA, you see, he was working on a very special secret project. Codename, Project Alpha. It was in weapons research, and he was one of the juniormost members. Project Alpha was, in fact, his first job out of the Academy. Most of the Time Lords involved were on later regenerations, having dedicated their lives to the study of a device such as the one they were attempting to construct. The second-youngest Time Lord on the project was still older than Narvin by a few centuries at least, and Narvin disliked him on principle. He disliked most people on principle.

But Project Alpha proved to be a failure, and it was here that Narvin first learned the art of covering things up, something that would prove very useful for him in the future. Narvin was, in fact, instrumental in helping cover up what had happened. When the timeonic fusion device was proven unstable, Narvin was the one who scrambled the paperwork, destroyed the countless reports he’d made (even those he’d made in triplicate!) and left, determined to never look back.

Being with the CIA gives Narvin a chance to further cover up the project. He’s only a junior agent, with limited security clearance and even more limited resources. But Narvin is smart. He’s a clever strategist, and he’s already learned that the best thing he can do for himself is to always watch his back. This is why he needs to do what he’s doing. He needs to make sure Project Alpha never comes back to bite him.

He starts with the easiest targets. One of the academics involved in the research arm of Project Alpha: a frail, elderly, white-haired Time Lord named Rybon. A failed politician who turned to weapons research. He has few friends and fewer allies. No one will notice if he dies; after all, he’s in his eleventh regeneration. He’s quite literally millennia old.

It’s quite easy. Rybon takes a sedative at night to help him sleep. The sedative works such that it must be taken in a very strict dosage. Any variation puts a Time Lord at risk of dying in his sleep. The sedative slows the hearts, and if too much is taken, it completely and totally stops them.

Rybon’s death is seen as a tragedy by the few who remember him. A once-brilliant Time Lord whose mental faculties slipped in his old age, thus causing a tragic accident with medication dosage. A few of the other former members of Project Alpha show up to the funeral. Narvin does, too, but only to scope out who he should target next. He doesn’t let himself be seen. He’s CIA now. He won’t associate with these people anymore; he barely tolerated them as coworkers. It’s better that way, especially now that he’s CIA. Can you imagine the security risk of having friends?

The funeral gives Narvin plenty of ideas for how to work out what moves to make next. He still has plenty of people who knew about Project Alpha, and that’s the kind of risk that could cost him a more powerful position in the CIA. (Narvin has, by the way, decided that he likes the CIA quite a lot. Many of the people working here are morally dubious and don’t like making friends. That’s just fine with Narvin.)

But before he can begin planning another death (and figuring out a strategic spacing so that none of the other former team members of Project Alpha get suspicious), Narvin has to do something he’s never done before: go offworld.

He doesn’t want to, you must understand. But he’s CIA. And he could only get by without doing any fieldwork for so long. When his Commander discovers that he’s been doing paperwork for seven years without once leaving the planet, he informs the Coordinator, a rather strange man named Vansell. And before Narvin knows it, he’s been assigned to a fieldwork case on some disgusting alien planet.

It’s atrocious. Narvin has some scientific curiosity in the planet, of course—how could he not? It is, he supposes, aesthetically beautiful, if one likes that sort of natural beauty. But Narvin is a Time Lord. He doesn’t like that sort of natural beauty. If he did, he’d be a little worried about his sanity.

The events on the planet unfold, with the fugitive Time Lord known as the Doctor showing up. It’s irritating that Narvin can’t arrest the man, but the whole experience has given Narvin some ideas involving this chronon energy.

It isn’t that the Time Lords Marell, Finya, Terimon, and Vidin died. It’s that there never were these Time Lords Marell, Finya, Terimon, and Vidin. They couldn’t have existed, therefore they certainly never could have worked on an important top-secret weapons research project. But after that, the crystal must be turned over to Coordinator Vansell, and Narvin is out of luck once more.

He isn’t quite certain where to go from that point. There are many other Time Lords who could expose his involvement in this rather embarrassing project, but he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. He needs to plan. And it would be helpful if some good opportunities fell into his lap.

In the meantime, though, he’ll just have to work his way up the ranks of the CIA, going from junior agent to agent to senior agent, and shortly afterwards, becoming a commander. His meteoric rise really is shocking, given that he started out in research, not with the CIA. Perhaps the fact that it was weapons research means something, or perhaps Narvin is just extraordinarily devoted to his job and good at sucking up to his superiors. He’s not concerned about the political backstabbing. Certainly, he’ll blackmail people, but he’d much rather just turn over the information anyway. And he often does. When he finds compromising information, he gets what he wants out of the person, then turns the information over. It’s utterly ruthless.

He doesn’t really have any friends.

But soon, he’s worked his way through the ranks, landing right at senior commander. It’s a dream job for Narvin, at least while the position of Coordinator is taken, primarily because it’s a desk job. Narvin doesn’t ever have to go offworld again. No more dirty alien worlds, no more running, no more carrying a staser around with him wherever he goes, no more CIA field uniform. Just the long, dignified robes and datapads for him, thank you very much. He even gets an office. It’s not a very nice office—it’s on one of the lower floors of the CIA headquarters, hidden behind several mazes of paperwork and filing cabinets filled with old datapads, down a hall with flickering lights, frayed wires sticking out from the ceiling, and concerning dripping noises—but it’s his. And the inside of the office is pristine: perfectly organized, boring, impersonal. Everything a CIA senior commander’s office should be. If only he could get rid of that dripping noise.

When the Sontarans invade, Narvin can see quite quickly that he’ll be useless in this fight. The Doctor, who has made himself the President, won’t work with CIA, and anyway, it isn’t Narvin’s job to try. That’s up to the Coordinator, and since the Coordinator doesn’t seem to want to get involved, it really doesn’t matter. It rankles everyone in the Agency that they aren’t allowed to arrest the Doctor in this trying time.

Narvin does, however, use the Sontaran invasion as an excuse to hunt down one of the old Sontaran blasters gathering dust in the CIA weapons archive. It’s right next door to his office, just down the steps into the basement, and he finds it without any difficulty. What’s more, he has a high enough security clearance that he can enter it without any trouble or suspicion. (And anyway, why would anyone suspect him of anything? He’s never done anything untoward, and all his movements done on behalf of the CIA have had paperwork backing him up done in triplicate. This is Narvin. He’s good at this sort of thing.)

It’s slightly more suspicious when he shoots three more Time Lords down with the Sontaran blaster before returning it to its space. But that’s three more Time Lords who can’t expose his work in Project Alpha. And Vansell has been hinting that he wants to groom Narvin to be the next Coordinator, if he were ever to step down from the position. Narvin doesn’t like Vansell much (although, let’s be honest, this is Narvin. He doesn’t like anyone much.), but he’ll put up with spending extra time with him if it means a shot at becoming Coordinator. In the meantime, he’ll focus on getting rid of the rest of these Time Lords from Project Alpha. They’re the one thing that could jeopardize his future as CIA Coordinator. He’s picked a target, is studying their behavior, planning his move, and is all ready to go.

And then they just...die.

Well. They don’t just die, that’s silly. There was no reason they should have died. They were on their eighth incarnation, in good health, a boring job in archival research. They were writing a book on the history of the Arcalian Chapter. They shouldn’t have just died.

It was a freak electrical incident, the official report says. Narvin slams the datapads down on his desk, enough for it to make a satisfying crack on the plastic of the desk, but not hard enough for it to damage the datapad. That would be irresponsible, and he is nothing if not responsible.

But why is he angry that such a thing happened? It was a freak accident, nothing more. An accident. Surely. But something isn’t sitting right with Narvin. He reads through the report once more. Glances over it, checks to see who led the investigation into the Time Lord’s death—he was, after all, the Cardinal of the Prydonian chapter, and such a matter must be investigated.

“I knew it,” he mutters, and slams the datapad back down on the desk, doing his best to find a good balance between cathartic and nondestructive. He storms out of the room, robes swishing around his ankles.

—————

After the whole “Project Alpha” incident, Braxiatel decides to try his hand at politics. Oh, he’s already tried his hand at it to some degree, but he needs to remake his image if he wants to get out of the Project Alpha problem without a sullied reputation. Certainly, he’s put safeguards in place to make sure no one actually finds out what happened, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. He does hope that none of the Time Lords involved in Project Alpha decide to ruin his career. Not that he’s concerned, of course. When he signed onto the project he double and triple-checked the Time Lords involved, made sure none of them had the proper political standing to really do any damage. The only way they could wreak havoc on his career now is if they all band together.

But he doesn’t think that’s all that likely, not really. Still, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Braxiatel will stop at nothing to maintain his safety. He’s good at this sort of game, and he won’t let some irresponsible weapons researchers stop him from becoming an Inquisitor or a member of the High Council or a Cardinal or Chancellor or, if he dares to hope, perhaps even the President. And as such, he must be very careful. Exceedingly so.

It’s child’s play to obtain the rank of Inquisitor. Brax uses his title ceremonially, except when strictly necessary. There are others who rather enjoy inquisitions, who find the power such a role provides to be invigorating. Brax likes to use the role for his own political purposes, not for inquisitions. When you have an inquisitor such as Irving Braxiatel on your side, why, your argument carries more weight.

Braxiatel is a politician through and through. He’ll do anything to stay in power, to extend his power, and to take power from others. And remember, this is Irving Braxiatel. He will do anything. But first, he has to worry about a few other things.

For example, he’s taken up tutoring at the Time Lord Academy, in the Prydonian college, showing a bit of pride for the alma mater. He only takes the best and brightest students to tutor, which rather begs the question of why he became a tutor in the first place. But when you look at what he’s doing, it becomes obvious. It’s all clearly a charade to become more popular to the public.

Brax has a brother, you see. A bit of a shame to the family name. It doesn’t come up often in conversation, but that brother is enough to make Brax have to fight that much more for his power. To achieve a high position, even Cardinal, requires twice as much effort, just to convince people that he  _ isn’t _ like his brother, like that no-good renegade of popular myth.

Tutoring at the Academy helps show what a straightforward, earnest, well-meaning person Braxiatel is. He wants to help shape the future, nurture bright young minds. It also helps Brax gain supporters from among the young Time Lords at the Academy. 

He didn’t mean to become so invested in such a position. It was supposed to be a bit of tutoring for the smartest, most exceptional students in the Prydonian college. Not a role that he actually cared about. But care he did, and all because of the student he was tutoring, the young Romanadvoratrelundar. She was intelligent, superbly so, and very lonely. And she coped with it by shutting the other students out even more. It was exactly the sort of behavior Braxiatel had himself exhibited at the Academy. He saw so much of himself in her, so much of his younger, more innocent self. And he couldn’t allow her to become as corrupt as he.

He arranged for her to begin travelling with the Doctor straight out of the Academy, promising Romana that it meant honor, glory, popularity, and a chance to aim for the presidency in politics. He turned on all of his charm and convinced the president to allow this. (The president had been considering a CIA agent, undercover, of course. Braxiatel wouldn’t allow such a thing. He had no contacts within the CIA, no possible way of keeping an eye on her. There were several...intriguing things going on with that woman, with her timeline, and he wanted to make sure all was well.) So Romana left. And before she did, Braxiatel made sure she’d never remember him.

It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, at least at this point in his lives. Romana was a bright young Time Lord, one of the most intelligent people he’d ever known. And he’d invested a lot into this, into her education and her travels. He was hedging his bets. He’d accidentally allowed himself to care.

But she had left, and now Braxiatel can focus on more pressing matters, like trying to go from Inquisitor to Cardinal. There are several problems with this: namely, Cardinal Glower doesn’t like him and thus won’t name him as successor. It’s a very big problem, and Brax needs to find a way to fix it. In the meantime, he must make himself indispensable in all other aspects of his work. After Romana leaves, Braxiatel begins working on more and more inquiries, always taking the hardest cases: the ones involving potential murder, sabotage, and political maneuvering. He proves himself an apt judge and an intelligent inquisitor. People respect him a little bit more, and his political opponents have begun to fear him.

In the meantime, he realizes that his record of events for Project Alpha is somewhat askew. He has no idea how that happened—the Time Lord responsible for the paperwork Brax now has a copy of was a small, constantly annoyed man whose concern for paperwork bordered on the absurd. But there are problems with it. For one thing, the Time Lord Rybon has died, but that can be easily updated. Braxiatel remembers hearing about Rybon’s death. An overdose of medication, it seems. How fortuitous for himself. He doesn’t like the fact that there are surviving members of Project Alpha out there. It makes him feel unsafe.

What’s harder to explain is the disappearance of four names from random parts of the paperwork. Braxiatel vaguely remembers Marell, Finya, Terimon, and Vidin, but they seem to be disappearing from history. When Brax has the paperwork outside of his chronal-locked safe, the names begin to disappear. When he puts the paperwork back inside the safe, the names reappear. It would appear that someone is messing about with history. How terribly irresponsible. A Time Lord after Braxiatel’s own heart, truly.

The Sontaran invasion is precisely what Braxiatel has been looking for. Well, not really, but it provides him with the backdrop needed to accomplish his goal of being named the successor to the Prydonian Cardinal. After all these long years, Braxiatel can see his victory in sight. He  _ will _ become Cardinal, after all this time! He just has to play his cards right.

When the Sontarans come to the Cardinal’s office, Braxiatel makes sure he’s far ahead of them. Glower is quivering in his chair, already hyperventilating at the mere _ thought _ of Gallifrey falling to a race of sentient potato clones. (Well. He’s probably not thinking of them as potato clones. Brax is the only Time Lord around with a penchant for using Earth terms like  _ potato. _ He’s hoping it’ll catch on at some point.) Braxiatel makes sure to knock before entering, just so that the Cardinal doesn’t faint at the terror of a door opening unexpectedly. You know how it is.

It is a poorly-kept secret that there are secret passages all around the Citadel. Braxiatel may or may not be aware of every single passage, keeping the entire maze in his brain, stored under a file marked, “Potentially Useful.” (Braxiatel isn’t actually the sort of person to think of his brain as anything remotely connected to files. Braxiatel actually thinks of his brain rather like a museum gallery. The maze of passages is on the fourth floor, down the corridor to the right, past the presidential security codes—and no, it isn’t important to learn how and why he knows them—and hanging on a wall behind a door marked  _ Staff Only. _ Why the secret passages are only for staff, while the presidential security codes are available to any museumgoer is a mystery that only Brax can answer. Not that he will, of course. This is Irving Braxiatel we’re talking about.)

Brax finds the Cardinal gibbering in fear, cowering so low behind his desk that only the red collar is visible from the door. “The Sontarans are coming,” Brax says crisply. “And if you want to escape with your life, you should come with me.”

Cardinal Glower is surprised, to say the least. He isn’t expecting help from someone like Irving Braxiatel, not when he’s so staunchly opposed the man for so many centuries. They’ve been political enemies from the very beginning, when Glower was appointed Cardinal in the aftermath of the Project Alpha incident. But he isn’t going to look a gift tafelshrew in the mouth, and he gets up, still trembling.

Braxiatel takes him to a panel of wall and, using a clever little sleight of hand trick, opens the secret passage without Glower even noticing. The Cardinal didn’t even know the passage was there. Brax holds out a hand. “After you,” he says, and it almost sounds like a threat.

Outside the office, the Sontarans march straight past without stopping to open the door. They don’t care about the Prydonian cardinal. They’re heading for a blue police box from Earth. It looks out of place here.

It really isn’t necessary to detail what went on inside the secret passageway. All that is necessary to know is that when Brax emerges, it is triumphant. He doesn’t even appear to have had any difficulty in his end goal. He will be listed as Glower’s successor (should anything, Rassilon forbid, happen to Glower). It’s a highlight to an otherwise trying day. Not only has Braxiatel had to avoid those Sontaran monstrosities, he’s also had to avoid his brother. And not only that, but his brother somehow became president for the day. Some people have all the luck.

Braxiatel plays it carefully in the aftermath of the Sontaran invasion. There’s been an uproar from the Doctor’s companion, an uncivilized human woman named Leela, choosing to stay on the planet, and what’s more, falling in love with and  _ marrying _ an upstanding member of the Chancellery Guard. It wouldn’t do to test the status quo for a little while. But it can’t be  _ too _ much later than the Sontaran invasion, or it will look suspicious.

Poor Cardinal Glower. His office was the last to be fixed after the damages brought about by the invasion. It’s not his fault. It was a freak electrical accident. And, just to ensure there was nothing  _ odd _ about his death, Inquisitor Braxiatel will take on one more job before assuming his new responsibilities as Cardinal, and he will investigate Glower’s death. Such an admirable devotion to duty. To law and order. What a kind, upright, morally decent Time Lord. Naturally, the death was a tragic accident.

Cardinal Braxiatel will fill the new role admirably, though, don’t you think? So charming. So distinguished. He’s even growing a mustache to celebrate.

—————

The sheer  _ audacity _ of the man. The nerve! The arrogant bastard! That—

Narvin calms himself down. It won’t do to get angry like that. He’s a member of the CIA, he is calm and collected at all times. That’s how you keep secrets from leaking, how you keep people from knowing what you’re up to.

Actually, that’s one part of the job Narvin is  _ very _ bad at. He can manage  _ smug _ and  _ annoyed. _ And that’s about it. But for Narvin, those two emotions are about equal to calm and collected. If he stays within them (with an added emotion called  _ slime _ that was invented purely to describe politicians), no one will be able to get an accurate read on him, other than the fact that he’s annoyed. Which they might as well know. He’s always annoyed, after all. No harm in other people knowing about it. Maybe if he’s annoyed enough, everyone else will stop acting like such incompetent buffoons. But he won’t hold his breath for that to happen, not without first engaging his respiratory bypass system.

He surreptitiously checks the map he’s downloaded onto his datapad. It’s the same datapad he’d been cracking against his desk earlier, and Narvin is relieved that it’s still working just fine. He hopes none of the Time Lords he’s run across have realized it’s a map, though. He should know the layout of the Citadel by now. He’s been living here for centuries, after all.

Actually, there’s no reason for Narvin to know the layout of the Citadel. He’s not exactly a social person. He’s dedicated his entire life to the CIA. It’s not like he goes and visits his friends after he’s finished for the night. Just pop on down to the Artron Forum for a pint of ginger beer and a night’s conversation with friends. That would require friends, for starters. Narvin knows the path from the CIA housing to the CIA headquarters. He knows how to get to his office, the CIA TARDIS bay, and Coordinator Vansell’s office. He knows the basic layout of the building, just like he knows the basic layout of the Citadel. But knowing these things in theory doesn’t mean he’s good at putting them into practice.

The new Cardinal—Cardinal  _ Braxiatel, _ the arrogant, good-for-nothing, bastard—has a new office. Not the one Glower was in. He apparently was worried about  _ safety. _ That’s a pack of lies, Narvin is certain. He’d bet his lives that Braxiatel is responsible for the Cardinal’s death. He was angling for Glower’s position, and anyway, he and Glower had old animosity between them. Narvin remembers the arguments from the Project Alpha days. There’s no love lost between Glower and Braxiatel.

Narvin storms into the Cardinal’s office without knocking, and Braxiatel looks up from a datapad with a start. “Who are you?” he asks bluntly.

“You know very well who I am,  _ Cardinal,” _ Narvin says, putting extra emphasis on the title, showing how much disdain he has for the man. “I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing at, Braxiatel, but I’ve read the report, and—”

“—No, really,” Braxiatel interrupts. He looks confused. “I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest clue who you are.”

Narvin stops dead in his sentence. Could that be true? Could Braxiatel have totally forgotten his existence? While Narvin certainly doesn’t care about the man in the slightest, it’s almost hurtful to be so forgettable. No, he reminds himself. It’s good. He’s CIA. He wants to be easily forgotten. It makes his life easier, not to mention safer. But still, they worked on Project Alpha together for how long?

“I’m Senior Commander Narvin of the Celestial Intervention Agency,” he says, stammering slightly. “And you  _ know me!” _

“I most certainly do not,” Braxiatel says, leaning back in his chair. Narvin can’t be certain, but he thinks he catches a shadow of facial hair over the man’s upper lip. Is he  _ really _ growing a  _ mustache? _

“You do,” Narvin insists, even though it’s making him feel stupid. “I know you do. You know me. We—” He looks around, even though they’re the only two people in the room. “—We worked on Project Alpha together,” he finishes, in hushed tones.

Braxiatel sits up at that, much to Narvin’s satisfaction. “Ah,” he says. “How remiss of me.” He holds out a hand. “Do sit.”

“Thank you, but I’d prefer to stand.” That way he can be taller than the Cardinal. Narvin’s not good at towering over people, but he can certainly try. He pauses for a moment, then says, “I know you killed Glower.”

The Cardinal arches a single eyebrow. He’s remarkably graceful. Smooth. Like an oily politician. “Do you?” he asks, and in those two words he’s both calm and collected. Not flustered. Not annoyed. Not smug. No, he’s rubbing it in Narvin’s face that he can actually do the emotions thing, that he’s good at it.

“It’s all there. You did the inquisition. You were the only one who could gain anything from Glower’s death.”

“Ah, you’re missing evidence,” Braxiatel says. “I had hoped you, with that obsession for paperwork, would remember a little thing like that?” He smiles beatifically, and Narvin suddenly has to suppress the urge to punch him. That’s not a normal feeling. “Besides,” Brax adds suddenly, “I can think of one other person who might want to kill Glower.”

“Oh really?” Narvin says, keeping his voice calm. Well, not calm. As close to calm as he can get it. Just the slightest hint of annoyed.

“Yes,” Braxiatel nods. “I believe he’s in the CIA. He was also on Project Alpha. A small, irritating man, obsessed with paperwork. Last I heard, he was a Senior Commander. I heard Coordinator Vansell is grooming him to become the next Coordinator. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

“What are you implying, Cardinal?” Narvin asks warily.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. Merely speculating, of course. It would be a dreadful thing for that Senior Commander if the news about Project Alpha got out, wouldn’t it? His blossoming career in the CIA would go up in flames. How terrible for him. And of course, Glower was head of Project Alpha. It would be best if something were to happen to him. Arrange an accident. A freak electrical problem?”

“Again, Cardinal, I must ask:  _ what are you implying?” _ Narvin says.

“And again, I must answer, Senior Commander: nothing. This is mere speculation. Just like what you’ve been accusing me of has been speculation. You have no evidence. And neither do I. But I was inquisitor in that case, Senior Commander. It would be quite easy for some new information to suddenly appear.”

“Are you threatening me?”

Braxiatel’s eyes widen. “Nothing quite so bold, Senior Commander!” He pauses. Smiles. “I’m sure there’s nothing illegal or suspicious about the former Cardinal’s death. I am merely postulating that such an occurrence would be dreadful for a man with so much to lose.” His smile drops, and his eyes harden, and suddenly Narvin is feeling very small, even though he’s standing and the Cardinal is sitting. “It’s something to think about, Senior Commander,” Braxiatel says in a low voice. “Don’t you agree?”

On his way back to his own office, Narvin tries to shake off the unease Braxiatel successfully filled him with. The man is unnerving. It’s a wonder he hasn’t gotten a lot farther in politics. That he’s only just now becoming a Cardinal. It’s subtly terrifying. It’s the sort of thing Narvin wishes he could do, and he’ll certainly hate Braxiatel for being able to do such a thing so well.

But one thing is certain: Braxiatel is the most immediate danger to Narvin. He’s the only Time Lord left from Project Alpha; the others have all died, either from natural causes or from what Narvin likes to call  _ tragic accidents. _ And it’s obvious that Braxiatel is smarter than the others. Not just smarter, but more manipulative, more calculated. Deadlier. Narvin doesn’t like it, not one bit.

Narvin accesses the CIA’s copy of the Citadel’s public surveillance from his office and starts to watch it. He has a plan, he just needs to know when Cardinal Braxiatel will be away from his office. The plan is risky, but Narvin knows that when dealing with someone like Braxiatel, you need to be willing to take risks. Normally Narvin is risk-averse, but keeping the Cardinal around is a greater danger than this one paltry assassination.

At long last, he gets his chance. The Cardinal has left his office, looking at a datapad. Clearly, he’s going home for the rest of the night. It’s time for Narvin to put his plan into action. He grabs the small bag he’s prepared, and makes sure he’s got the correct security codes, and then he’s off, back to Braxiatel’s office, anxiously checking the map on his datapad every few nanospans.

The office is dark, but the lights turn on obligingly when Narvin bursts in. He wishes doors on Gallifrey weren’t quite so loud, but it’s late. There’s no one around to hear him. He begins going through the drawers in Cardinal Braxiatel’s desk, hoping to find some piece of evidence demonstrating that the Cardinal did murder Cardinal Glower. It would make things so much easier. Perhaps some sort of written confession.  _ Dear Diary, today I murdered Cardinal Glower and made it look like an accident. _ Narvin knows it’ll never happen, that Braxiatel is good at this sort of thing, but he can still hope.

Just as he suspected, there is nothing. No evidence to suggest that Braxiatel was behind Glower’s death. Narvin is certain it was Braxiatel—it all makes sense—but the man is good. He doesn’t even leave evidence in locked desk drawers. Narvin leaves the bag on top of the desk. It doesn’t matter if Braxiatel opens the bag or not; the moment he so much as touches it, it will explode, taking Braxiatel with it. It’s nasty, but it’s effective, and Narvin just wants to get this over with. He’s spent centuries working towards this, quite literally.

He leaves the office, still wishing the door wasn’t quite so loud, and is startled by the sound of slow clapping. He whirls around, and down the hall, in the gloom, he can see two bright eyes.

“Well done, Narvin,” Cardinal Braxiatel says.

Narvin’s hearts drop.

“I’m very impressed,” Brax continues. “All it took was a single afternoon, and you managed to find my confidential security codes. I’ll have to remember to hide them better.”

Narvin stays silent. He’s not sure what he can say. His mind is reeling. He’s been caught. He’s lost.

“You didn’t find anything, though, did you?” Brax continues.

“No.”

“I told you there was nothing to hide.”

“Just because I didn’t find anything doesn’t mean you didn’t do it!” Narvin exclaims, then wishes he hadn’t, because he’s already going to be in so much trouble.

“You’re quite right, of course,” says Brax. “Which is why I applaud your determination. But you won’t find anything.”

“I can’t believe you had nothing to do with it,” Narvin retorts.

“I never said that,” Brax counters. “All I said is that you won’t find anything. I have nothing to hide.” His eyes glint. “If you run along back to your rooms, I won’t even tell anyone you were here. It will be our little secret.”

“How can I know you won’t use this against me?” Narvin asks.

“We have collateral,” Brax says. “If I ruin you, it won’t matter to you if Project Alpha comes out or not. I imagine you’ll take me down with you if given the chance.”

He makes sense, even if Narvin doesn’t like it. Narvin won’t look a gift tafelshrew in the mouth, though, so he leaves, trying to figure out how to leave a situation like that and still seem calm, collected, confident, and unknowable, like any good CIA agent. He’s just been humiliated.

But as he leaves, a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. Brax will still walk into his office in the morning to that bag. Narvin can still win this.

The next morning, Narvin has barely sat down at his desk to get to work when there’s a knock on his door. This is surprising for a variety of reasons, the most obvious one being that very few people knock on Narvin’s door. He doesn’t have any meetings scheduled. It’s terrifying.

Narvin opens the top drawer of his desk and puts his hand on the staser resting there. “Come in!” he calls.

To his surprise, in walks Cardinal Braxiatel. “Hello, Senior Commander,” he says. “Or—may I call you Narvin?”

“You may not,” Narvin replies firmly.

“Thank you very much, Narvin.” Braxiatel smiles, sharklike. “I believe you forgot something on my desk when you were rooting around my office last night.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Braxiatel holds a bag forward. “I found this on my desk this morning, and as you were the one in my office last night, I imagine it’s yours. Good job, by the way, on your rooting around. If I hadn’t known any better, I wouldn’t have known someone had gone through my things.” He gives the bag to Narvin and leaves.

Narvin looks at the bag in surprise. He used to be in  _ weapons research. _ Surely he can build a functional bomb. It should have gone off the moment Braxiatel touched the bag. Narvin opens the bag.

And it explodes in his face.

Not a  _ big _ explosion, certainly not. Just enough to blacken Narvin’s face, singe his hair. Enough to force Narvin to head back to his rooms to wash up and change his robe. Braxiatel obviously wanted to get his own revenge on Narvin.

Narvin smiles grimly. This is just the beginning. Braxiatel has no idea what he’s in for.

—————

The following weeks pass by without any problems. Braxiatel rather enjoys being a Cardinal. It’s like being an Inquisitor, but without the Inquisitorial duties. In fact, no one seems to be quite certain what a Cardinal’s responsibilities actually are. It makes life easy. All the power and influence, and none of the work.

The one thorn in his side is this Senior Commander Narvin. The one who was on Project Alpha with him. The one who had correctly accused him of assassinating Cardinal Glower. The one who had planted a bomb in his office. A  _ bomb _ in his  _ office. _

Of course, Braxiatel was able to get back at Narvin. And Narvin later gets back at Braxiatel, with a missive from the president that locked down all his datapads with a virus. It wasn’t even a harmful virus, it was just something that Narvin had obviously created himself. All it did was lock Braxiatel out of his datapads. Whenever he tried to use them, the screen would turn white and a smiling pig-bear would trot across the screen with “NO ACCESS FOR ASSASSINS” written inside a little balloon over its mouth. It was utterly ridiculous. Braxiatel loved it.

What he didn’t love was the obvious fact that Narvin had the skills to bypass Braxiatel’s security. Braxiatel is very proud of his security. He’s very good at it. He has to be, given the fact that he breaks the Laws of Time considerably often. Narvin being able to override it with something as stupid and silly as that is worrying.

His retaliation consists of deleting Narvin’s CIA access codes. Not nearly as creative as Narvin’s virus, but just as effective. Unfortunately, Narvin apparently has backup plans for something like this. Either that, or he’s figured out how to read Braxiatel. That wouldn’t be good. The day after he attempts that, Narvin shows up at his office.

”Leave the CIA out of this,” he says, once more barging into the office without knocking.

Braxiatel looks up from his datapad. He’s reprogrammed the pig-bear to say “NARVIN IS AN IMBECILE,” and he’s also figured out how to turn it into a game, even if he hasn’t successfully dismantled it yet. “I beg your pardon?” he asks politely.

“Leave the CIA out of this.” Narvin waves a hand expressively. “Whatever  _ this _ is.”

“I assume it’s your way of flirting with me, Senior Commander,” Braxiatel says cheerfully. He’s only known Narvin for a few weeks (if you don’t count Project Alpha—and he doesn’t), but he’s already figured out that any reference to interpersonal relationships flusters Narvin. The poor man must be really terrible at them.

True to form, Narvin sputters and stammers before figuring out a response. “You think that I’d want to—to—to  _ flirt _ with you?” he manages, the outrage in his voice almost comical. “I want you to leave me alone! I want Project Alpha to never have existed! And more than anything else, I want you to leave anything to do with the CIA out of this—this—this  _ flirtation!” _

“I thought you didn’t want to flirt with me,” Braxiatel replies, deadpan. “Perhaps a better word would be a fight? Argument? Absurd pattern of mutually assured destruction?”

“It’s  _ not _ a flirtation,” Narvin says, his voice oozing annoyance. “But thanks to  _ you, _ that’s the word that was in my head, so that’s what I said. And you still haven’t agreed to leave the CIA out of it!”

It’s fun winding Narvin up. Cathartic. Brax should do it more often. “Why would I involve the CIA?” he asks.

”You tried to delete my access codes,” Narvin says scathingly, like it’s the worst crime imaginable, right up there with assassinating the President—not, of course, that Braxiatel has ever assassinated a President. What could possibly have given you that idea?

“You locked up my datapads with a virus,” Braxiatel says calmly. “All I’ve been able to do so far is change the message the pig-bear is sending.” He holds up the datapad in his hand, making sure Narvin gets to see the new message. “By the way,” he adds, setting the datapad back down on his desk. “‘No access for assassins?’ Really? That was the best you could do? I thought you were Patrexes.” 

“There’s a reason I joined the CIA,” Narvin says primly.

“Very well,” Braxiatel says suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ll leave the CIA alone. No more access codes or anything like that.” Brax can think of many other things he can do that don’t involve anything so boring as  _ access codes. _

“Thank you,” Narvin says, surprising Brax. Before he can pass comment on Narvin’s politeness, the Senior Commander has turned on his heel and left the room, without so much as a goodbye.

Shortly afterwards, Vansell dies in mysterious circumstances, circumstances involving something called Anti-Time. Braxiatel has been getting only the barest of details from President Romana, but from what he’s heard, the whole affair somehow involved his brother. Of course it did. And because Vansell is dead, Narvin gets to take over as Coordinator of the CIA.

Braxiatel is one of the first to congratulate him. He sends a card that, when opened, will release a gas that, while non-fatal, will leave Narvin with a rather embarrassing rash for the official ceremony in which he becomes Coordinator.

When he sees Narvin at the ceremony, the man looks acutely uncomfortable, and Brax notices him surreptitiously itching at his robes at several points throughout the long, drawn-out process.

Afterwards, Narvin corners Brax. “That was a dirty trick you played, Cardinal,” he mutters. His teeth are gritted, and he looks almost like he’s in pain.

“I had to get entirely new datapads,” Braxiatel replies shortly. “Do you know the sort of trouble that causes? Be grateful it isn’t worse.”

Before Narvin can respond, he’s interrupted by the Madam President Romana, who very courteously welcomes Narvin, giving an obviously prepared speech about working with him and viewing him as a valued colleague on the High Council. By the time Narvin rudely interrupts her to let her know how much he dislikes her policies, Braxiatel has made himself scarce.

When Narvin corners Braxiatel in a corridor some months later and insists on shaking his hand, Brax is wary. “It’s alright,” Narvin says, with clearly fake cheerfulness. “I’m just extending the hand of friendship. You left the ceremony so early, and I haven’t seen you since. I’m feeling unwanted.”

“I rather thought you didn’t like me,” Brax responds. “That I played a, as you put it, ‘dirty trick.’”

“Nonsense, Cardinal!” Narvin exclaims. “Come, do you think I’d hold a grudge over a childish prank like that?”

Brax’s answer to that is yes, but as he looks at Narvin, and Narvin’s extended hand, with suspicion, he decides that it’s a risk he can take. They’re in a public corridor. There are other people around. It can’t be too bad. Gingerly, he shakes Narvin’s hand.

When his hand comes away, the palm is covered in some sort of clear goo. Brax tries to shake it off, but it’s stuck fast. He goes to find a sink somewhere, where he can wash.

Clearly, Narvin had anticipated this, because the goo reacts with the water...strangely. It sprouts and grows and twists around Braxiatel’s hand, covering it completely in a substance that looks very much like bubbles. It’s light as air, but when he touches it with his other hand, it’s rock hard. He tries running his hand under the water, but the bubbles casing his hand just grow larger.

He sighs, and heads back to his office, doing his best to hide his hand from everyone else. When he gets back, he orders his computer to call Narvin.

Narvin looks worryingly cheerful. “Ah, Cardinal,” he says when he sees Brax. “How are you today?”

“Better before you showed up,” Brax retorts shortly. “Meet me in my office in five microspans.”

“But I have meetings, Cardinal!”

“Cancel them.” Braxiatel’s voice is like ice.

Narvin sighs, and Brax can practically hear the complaining already. “Very well, but this had better be important.”

When Narvin shows up, Braxiatel makes sure his hand isn’t visible. He doesn’t want the Coordinator thinking he’s gotten away with anything.

“Well, Braxiatel?” Narvin has started calling Brax by his name, rather than his title. Brax isn’t quite sure what to make of this, but he supposes he can’t really ask that Narvin stop.

“This silly game has gone on long enough.”

“Which silly game would this be?”

Brax frowns. Narvin has gotten more confident with his promotion to Coordinator. There’s no more terror that his position could be in jeopardy. He’s gotten to the spot of Coordinator, and he can keep that position easily. It’s not nearly as political as any other position of power. It makes it more difficult to intimidate him, though, and Brax doesn’t like that. “You know which silly game,” he replies. “It started because of Glower and Project Alpha. That one.”

Narvin rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t the one who murdered Glower, Cardinal,” he says. “I wasn’t the one who started this.”

“You’re the one who planted a bomb in my office.”

“You’re the one who blew up a bomb in my office!”

“That was an incendiary device that couldn’t be fatal unless you ate it. You tried to kill me!”

“And you tried building a robot to infiltrate my rooms and poison me in my sleep.”

“And you tried to set up a localized oubliette of eternity in my rooms!”

“That was a fake and you know it, Cardinal, I wouldn’t be so irresponsible! It was to  _ scare  _ you, and that was obvious.”

“And you sent that virus that crashed all my datapads.”

“You deleted my CIA access codes!”

“Unsuccessfully, I might add.”

“Yes, and what about the rash at the ceremony, at the proudest moment of my life?”

Braxiatel snorts without meaning to. “The point is, Coordinator, we have been playing these childish pranks on each other for  _ years _ now. There is no reason to continue. They’ve gone from credible death threats to mild discomfort. I believe we should discontinue this.”

“Why now?” Narvin asks.

“I believe—” Braxiatel starts then pauses. Sighs. “I believe that we now know each other well enough to know that neither of us wants the information about Project Alpha to get out. It could end both our careers. Mutually assured destruction. And it would be in our best interests for both of us to drop these pranks and act like mature, responsible Time Lords in influential positions. Agreed?”

Narvin considers. “Agreed,” he replies. “But only on the grounds that you agree that my fake oubliette was the best of them all.”

“What about my robot?” Brax demands, then stops. “This is getting us nowhere,” he says. “I will be ceasing in my... _ pranks _ to you, and I trust you will do the same for me.”

“Understood.” Narvin stands up, and Brax quickly gets up, too. Narvin looks at him, confused. “I know the way out,” he says.

“Oh, I know,” Brax says. “I just want to get the door for you. To show there’s no ill will.” He moves across the room, careful to keep his hand out of Narvin’s sight. With his left hand, he opens the door, and Narvin steps out.

“I’ll be seeing you around, Cardinal,” Narvin says stiffly.

“Goodbye, Coordinator,” Brax says, and finally takes his bubble hand out from behind his back to wave at the Coordinator.

Narvin’s face splits into a grin. Brax doesn’t think he’s ever seen the Coordinator manage even a tiny smile. It’s alarming. “I knew it!” Narvin cries. “I knew it would work! I—”

Braxiatel buzzes the door shut in Narvin’s face, cutting off his sentence. Not that it matters all that much. He makes his way back to his desk and sits down, leaning back in his chair thoughtfully. The Coordinator really is remarkable. All that annoyance, but deep down, he really had  _ cared _ about these silly pranks. Brax, of course, doesn’t care. Of course not.

Still, he thinks, as he glances over a briefing for a High Council meeting, it had kept things interesting. Entertaining. Fun, even. And if he ever were to let himself get nostalgic, he might even find himself missing them.


End file.
